


being anchored or bored just feels like a curse

by TrenchWarfare



Series: the way we're wearing anchors on our shirts [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements, Werewolf Victor Nikiforov, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchWarfare/pseuds/TrenchWarfare
Summary: Victor Nikiforov, as a born wolf, has never had problems with control in the past. This is a fact he used to pride himself on, that used to make him preen whenever a bitten Were would stare at him, eyes wide, and ask, “Really?” in a voice so awestruck that they gave even Victor’s most devoted fans a run for their money.





	being anchored or bored just feels like a curse

When Victor puts his phone down on the wall of the rink with a sigh - which is only a little bit lovelorn, he’s not completely hopeless, no matter what Chris says  - Yuri Plisetsky skids to a stop nearby and makes a face.

“Will you stop waiting for that disgusting pig to call you and actually focus for once?” Plisetsky asks in his typical tone of voice, which would be considered yelling to most humans, and always irritates Victor’s more sensitive hearing.

Victor doesn’t answer him, intent on letting the insult slide even as his wolf rears up in his chest. With an unconcerned smile, Victor reaches for his anchor and skates away.

Except his wolf doesn’t seem to calm. It doesn’t even seem fazed, even though the rasp of his skates against the ice is loud in Victor’s ears, and by now the wolf should really be slinking back into the depths of his subconscious. Instead, the wolf throws itself at Victor’s chest, a violent, physical thing that sends Victor to his knees and leaves him gasping for breath. Distantly, Victor is aware of his rink mates scrambling away from him.

The wolf presses ever closer to the surface, features of it breaking through his skin, manifesting as claws that scratch at the ice below him and fangs that fill his mouth, an uncomfortable pressure against his lips and the inside of his cheeks. And Victor _panics._

Victor Nikiforov, as a born wolf, has never had problems with control in the past. This is a fact he used to pride himself on, that used to make him preen whenever a bitten Were would stare at him, eyes wide, and ask, “ _Really?_ ” in a voice so awestruck that they gave even Victor’s most devoted fans a run for their money.

_It’s not that impressive really_ , Victor would tell anyone who asked, _you just have to find the right anchor_. And he would flash his most charming smile, full of straight, flat teeth that looked entirely incapable of ripping someone’s throat out.

Which is what makes this entire situation even more frustrating. Victor should not be having trouble keeping his wolf under control. Yet here he is, collapsed on the ice, the knees of his sweat pants getting wetter by the second.. And he should just move, he should get off the ice and cool his head, but.

He’s afraid he might tear Yuri Plisetsky’s head off, and he’s pretty sure the only thing stopping him from doing that is his claws in the ice.

Victor tries to ignore the other side of the rink where Plisetsky had been whisked away to once Georgi realized what was happening. He tries to ignore the way the rink has gone quiet, but not silent, the hushed whispers still audible to him even if there’s not a whole lot of him left to make sense of them. He definitely ignores the concern they’re projecting at him, the wolf already bristling at the weakness Victor is showing.

He focuses instead on his hands, his _claws_. They’re digging into the ice, gouging it bad enough that they’re going to have to bring out the zamboni before they can resume practice - unless they want someone to break their neck. The ice beneath him is too slippery for him to really get a hand hold, but that only exacerbates the damage, spreading it out so the ice behind him is covered in scratched too deep for ice skates to make.

He takes a deep breath in an effort to calm himself, but catches the sharp scent of Plisetsky’s fear - and that’s almost enough for him to forget why he’s holding back, almost enough for him to spring to his feet and charge, the wolf desperate to take advantage of Plisetsky’s disorientation.

Victor goes tense. He concentrates on not moving, as though being still will stop his wolf from wrenching control away from him. He claws at the ice more desperately, digging in more forcefully, causing blood to well up at his nail beds.

Victor wants to yell out, to scream in frustration. He doesn’t understand why this is so hard for him, especially when his anchor is _right here_. He’s never even come close to losing control on the ice before. Sure, he’s noticed that the pull of the ice hasn’t been as strong for him in the past year, but it was never a problem before now. And the only thing that’s changed recently is - oh, _damn_.

Victor leans forward until his forehead is pressed against the ice, then lets out a pitiful whine that echoes across the rink.

“Victor?” Someone calls out, possibly Georgi, judging by the only mild irritation he feels at the sound. Victor doesn’t respond, doesn’t think he can do anything but let out more sad, inhuman noises. He doesn’t want to do that, doesn’t want to show the other wolves any more weakness than he’s already bared, so he focuses his energy on pressing his lips together and trying not to cry out.

Because of course, _of course,_ Victor’s subconscious had to something as ridiculous as changing his goddamn anchor on him. And of course Victor wouldn’t even realise it until he’s been away from said anchor for too long and almost kills one of his rink mates for daring to insult the one thing keeping his wolf under control.

But, hey, at least it’s _surprising_. And Victor can’t stop a hysterical laugh from bubbling through his lips at the thought.

Victor lifts his head off the ice, wincing as a droplet of water almost runs into his eye, too wary of himself to risk moving his hands to wipe it away. The ice, though no longer his anchor, is the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him here instead of over _there_ where his wolf wants to be so badly that it’s thrashing against Victor’s ribcage painfully.

Victor closes his eyes and just. Breathes. He thinks about Yuuri. About his step sequences, and how they took Victor’s breath away even before they met properly. He thinks about his eyes that are always so shuttered unless he’s with Phichit Chulanont, or when he’s had a few too many glasses of champagne. Victor remembers how he felt in Yuuri’s arms, their faces so close that Victor can still smell the champagne on Yuuri’s breath. He thinks about what it would feel like to close that distance.

Slowly, the pressure on his chest decreases, and soon the only things scraping against the ice are Victor’s regular, human fingernails. And when Victor looks up at everyone else, all gathered in the stands beside the rink, the sight of Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t fill him with rage. Fond annoyance sure, but he’s probably not going to tear his throat out today.

And Victor gets to his feet, musters up the most charming smile he can handle at the moment and apologizes.

Those of his rink mates that are wolves keep their distance, wary and respectful of Victor’s boundaries. The humans gather around him, trying to assure themselves that he’s alright, and the extra attention gets tiring before long.

Victor excuses himself quickly, not waiting to talk to Yuri, even though he really should, because the wolf isn’t gone, just calmed. For now. And Victor really doesn’t want the kid’s blood on his hands. He’ll apologize tomorrow.

Makkachin is excited as always when he gets home, and Victor drops to his knees as soon as the door is shut and he throws his arms around her. Victor presses his face into her neck and just basks in the presence of someone who actually wants to see him.

Nationals is a next week and Worlds feels like forever away. The longer his phone stays silent, the heavier his shoulders feel, and for just a moment, he allows the misery to boil over. Makkachin won’t be too upset if her fur gets a little damp.

“Why couldn’t you be my anchor, Makkachin?” Victor mumbles wetly, “You’ll never leave me.”

Makkachin huffs, her warm breath ruffling Victor’s hair.

“Yeah,” Victor pulls away, hands on her shoulders, “you’re always right, darling. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

And Victor Nikiforov stands up, brushes off his shoulders, and makes dinner. He can only hope that he will survive until Worlds with a shaky anchor and a mishandled heart.

And later that night, he lies awake hoping that the people around him will too.

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was meant to be a tiny little drabble that I was going to post screenshots of on twitter, but it got too long for that, so here we are. It's not as planned out as my other fics so be gentle pwease <3


End file.
